


Metamorphgenus

by BummedOutWriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, F/M, Female Draco, Female Draco Malfoy, Genderbending, Genderswap, Humor, M/M, Metamorphmagus, Mpreg, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BummedOutWriter/pseuds/BummedOutWriter
Summary: In which every time Draco sneezes he changes genders.





	Metamorphgenus

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the plotline of Ranma ½.  
> There's a reference to Harry Potter 8--erm, I mean, Carry On by Rainbow Rowell. Also a tiny reference to Half Bad by Sally Green.  
> Shoreditch is a good time.  
> As I do with most of my stories, I'll probably go over this over the next two weeks to rewrite certain scenes and fix typos.

Harry had never imagined that he would end up being Auror partners with Maloy, of all people, but the two made a surprisingly functional team.

They maintained a cool professionalism, and a policy of reticence in the small office they shared. They communicated the minimum amount necessary to accomplish their jobs. And more importantly than anything else, the two did not discuss what had occurred between them when both had gotten pissed at the Ministry Christmas party six months prior.

“It’s another dead lead Potter,” Malfoy said optimistically as Harry pounded his fist on the doorframe of Terrence Rogers’s dilapidated old house.

Harry struggled not to roll his eyes. He watched Malfoy shift his weight from his right foot to his left.

Malfoy had been sort of antsy lately. He was complaining more than usual, and had fallen back into the aristocratic drawl he had employed all throughout Hogwarts. It was almost as though he had forgotten about the secret, unspoken of, _Statute-Of-Reticence_ that both had silently agreed on. Harry had hardly been able to stop himself from snapping when Malfoy had criticized Harry’s hair, then his robes, then his severely-worn dragonhide boots, all that same morning.

Patience worn to tenuous threading, Harry opened his mouth to retort, when Malfoy shoved him aside.

There was a flash of bright red, and when Harry oriented himself, he could see a gaping hole in the door aligned to where his head had been. There was a shuffling of movement inside, and Harry aimed his wand. He slammed through the wards, leaving the door hanging open on one hinge.

“I’ll go around the back,” called Malfoy, already sprinting across the yard.

Harry entered the dark house, ducking out of the way of hexes, but not letting the shadowy figure of Terrence Rogers out of his sight. The hunched man entered a room on the far end of the house. There was a burst of daylight as he darted through a back door.

Lifting himself from behind a counter, Harry hurried after Rogers and into the overgrown backyard. He spotted Rogers coming face to face with Malfoy. Harry lifted his wand, but Rogers was already growling out a hex just as Malfoy erected a shield charm.

There was another burst or red, bright and blinding, and it crashed right through Malfoy’s shield, sending the blonde flying through the old fence that framed the yard.

 _“Stupefy!”_ Harry yelled, catching Rogers right in the back. Rogers dropped heavily in a pile of limbs, and Harry warily proceeded through the yard towards the splintered wood and verdant overgrowth where his partner had fallen. “Malfoy,” he called, keeping his eyes trained on the suspect. “You alive?”

Malfoy stood with a groan. He must not have been too bad off, considering. “Fine.”

Harry blinked. That had been a girl’s voice. From Harry’s periphery, said girl was shaking, cursing, and dusting off her robes. Where the hell was Malfoy? Harry couldn’t help it—he turned. “Miss, are you alri…” Harry trailed off.

“I’m fine, Potter,” she drawled, in a strangely high, but familiar voice.

The woman standing before Harry—specifically where Malfoy had fallen—had long blond hair and large gray eyes. Her fine robes looked slightly too long yet clung tightly to her hips and chest, where they clearly didn’t fit her. Her lips were full and pink, her eyelashes long, and she was gorgeous, but she was also very clearly—

“M-Malfoy?” Harry stammered.

Girl-Malfoy released a huff. “Yes, it’s me,” she said irritably. She looked down at her body, a moue crossing her lips.

“What the hell was that hex?” said Harry, feeling oddly compelled to check for his bits.

“This wasn’t caused by the hex,” said girl-Malfoy icily, thus causing Harry’s brain to implode.

Trying to vain to put his brain-pieces back together, Harry licked his lips. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Are you hurt?” he managed, for a lack of knowing what else to say.

Girl-Malfoy pressed her lips. “I’m not—sure,” she admitted.

“I’ll take you to St. Mungos.” Harry extended his arm.

“No.” Malfoy sneered at Rogers’s form still sprawled in the weedy overgrowth. “Take in the suspect. I’ll head home—I can just contact my personal healer.”

Harry scrutinized the beads of sweat forming on his partner’s brow. “Malfoy, you’re shaking.”

Girl-Malfoy swallowed, folding her arms.

“And you’re—erm, you’re a bird.”

Malfoy gave a self-depreciating smile. “Give me a minute then. I’m a bit—shaken.” And she turned from Harry, hands balling into fists.

Harry could not help staring at the golden curls of hair hanging behind Malfoy, almost to her waist. He heard Malfoy breathing deeply, as though to concentrate.

There was a visible change. Malfoy’s breaths became harsher and wetter, as his bones seemed to compress in places and expand in others. Harry watched in awe as Malfoy’s hips thinned and shoulders broadened under his robes, and he also got several inches taller. The long tendrils of hair inched their way higher and higher, until Malfoy’s nape was again exposed.

Finally Malfoy turned around, looking much the same, but also _different_ , and very much a male.

He was also bleeding heavily through a gash in his torso that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“There.” Malfoy gave a grim smile, and collapsed in a heap.

Harry crouched down by his side and apparated them both to St. Mungos.

*

“You poor thing,” Parkinson gushed. “I knew being paired with Potter was as good as a death warrant.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t his fault,” he said, generously, Harry thought.

Harry stood alone in the corner of the hospital room, looking much like a creep as Malfoy’s friends coddled him.

Malfoy was sitting up in bed, shirtless, except for the large section of bandages encircling his torso. He was mostly healed, but sore, if judging by the grimaces that crossed his face every time Parkinson prodded at him in morbid fascination.

Then again, Malfoy wasn’t unknown for his theatrics.

Consistently, Harry would look up to check Malfoy’s torso for breasts, but none ever seemed to appeared to Harry’s—dismay? Relief? It was all quite confusing, and Harry still wasn’t sure that he hadn’t gone mad.

“Well, we better head off,” said Blaise, a hand on Pansy’s hip. “Try not to die before my party. Only another two weeks.”

“Get some rest,” said Goyle, and the trio of Slytherins sauntered out of the hospital room, not without throwing Harry scathing looks and the occasional rude hand gesture.

In their absence, Malfoy’s attention shifted to him, and Harry found that he still couldn’t think of anything to say or do. Instead he stood frozen, like some perverse cactus.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me?” Malfoy challenged.

Harry fidgeted awkwardly, as though he hadn’t had every intention of doing just that. He released a breath he had not realized that he had been holding in, before unfolding his arms and finally pushing himself off the wall. He hesitated, and approached Malfoy’s bedside, where he dropped to the chair beside it.

“I need you to tell me I’m not going mad,” Harry implored.

Malfoy didn’t respond; he just gave Harry a commiserating look.

“Malfoy…” Harry seethed. “What—the hell?”

Malfoy frowned. “Are we really going to do this? What happened to that Statute of—”

“Oh, we are far beyond that,” said Harry, putting in a great deal of effort not to spontaneously combust.

Malfoy sighed. “The…healer said that I’ve been suppressing her for too long a time.” He looked pained. “And that she’s fairly desperate to come out.”

After that, Malfoy was silent for a long time. Harry felt himself impatiently shaking his foot.

Eventually, Malfoy said, “I’m a metamorphgenus.” He shrugged. “Genetic thing.”

Harry twitched. “I know metamorphmagi, Malfoy! That—that wasn’t—”

“Metamorph _genus_ ,” Malfoy interrupted. “It’s an offset, and it’s rare,” he spat.

“Oh,” said Harry. He sucked in a deep breath. “What does it—?”

“It means I can change gender by will. Well, sometimes. It’s all really psychological, but I’m usually triggered when I sneeze. Though sometimes, if I really focus…” he trailed off.

Harry continued to stare. “So sometimes you’re a woman,” he squeaked.

“And sometimes I’m male,” said Malfoy bitterly. “Neither gender is more valid than the other. I’m—both.”

Harry’s mind was reeling. He couldn’t help noticing how tightly Malfoy was gripping his sheets, and the way he was scowling at his lap. “You resent her,” Harry realized. “I mean—you resent your female self.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “As she resents me. Can you blame us?”

“Us? As in—two people?”

“Not really. No. Sort of?” Malfoy shrugged in a defeated way. “When I shift, I’m the same person, but the change is all-encompassing. It changes my hormones, my anatomy. You wouldn’t believe how much it affects my personality. It’s all quite nauseating, really. We’re both Draco, just under the influence of different biology.”

Harry nodded dumbly. “And the injury…”

“If one gets hurt, it doesn’t impact the other. It’s really…powerful magic. One gender can be sick while the other remains healthy. It has its benefits, I guess.”

Harry was reminded of the muggle condition he had seen depicted in a movie one time—multiple personality disorder. If a person with the condition wanted to avoid dealing with a trauma, they could simply switch between personalities. But with Malfoy, the ability seemed to extend to physical conditions.

“I think it’s part of the reason she decided to come out,” Malfoy mused, again looking at his hands. “In my male form, I was injured. I could no longer stand. So she took over my body.”

“That’s fascinating,” Harry heard himself say.

Malfoy’s expression twisted. “It’s also quite inconvenient.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows in thought. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t anticipate—”

“We’re partners. You should have told me.”

Malfoy nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “It won’t happen again.”

*

Harry could not stop thinking about it.

He wondered how Malfoy had managed to hide it at Hogwarts. If what Malfoy had told him was true—and there had been little reason for Malfoy to make something like that up—it meant that all Malfoy’s life, he had been a girl on the inside, or rather—on the _other_ side. And this _girl-Malfoy_ had been ignored, neglected, just _waiting_ to come out.

Over the passing weeks, there was no sign of her. Malfoy reverted to his attitude of icy professionalism, but Harry had a new appreciation for Malfoy’s odd fidgetiness, or his arbitrary episodes of irritability. He couldn’t help but wonder whether it was because of her defiance, of her need to _be_.

“How’s it going?” said Harry one evening in the office. Everyone was preparing to go, but Malfoy was hunched over his desk poring over a report.

Harry could see Malfoy’s back tense. “Fine.”

“Since your injury…” Harry elaborated.

“I’m fine, Potter.”

“So no more…”

“Episodes? No.”

The small office fell into silence, Harry inattentively zapping stray memos with his wand. He could tell that Malfoy had lost focus on his report, as the scratching of his quill had ceased.

“I’ve been trying to let her out more often. At home. It helps…temper things.”

Harry nodded dumbly, refusing to allow himself to look Malfoy’s way. His brief sighting of girl-Malfoy flashed through his mind, and there was just something so weird and exciting about the whole concept, he couldn’t help asking, “Why do you stay male?”

Malfoy’s next words were meticulously calm. “I’m the Malfoy heir. I have to be.”

Harry nodded, understanding. “Right. It just doesn’t seem fair...to her.”

“For a public persona, it hardly makes sense to have an inconsistent appearance. It’s the same with any metamorphmagus. It’s just not— _normal_ , or practical either. And then for the matter of inheritance rights in my family, I have to be—”

“Male. Right.”

And yet Harry could not help thinking about the injustice of it all. Malfoy could have the best of both worlds. He could be male. He could be female. Harry let this vacillate in his skull.

*

Ever since his arse of an Auror partner had outed him to the department head, Draco had seen a subtle change in his position at the DMLE.

For one thing, he was given a specialized Auror uniform that changed with his body to fit his form, and always look appropriate, depending on which gender he was.

For another, he was assigned to far more undercover missions than usual. If Robarbs thought he was going to capitalize on Draco’s being a metamorphgenus, he had sorely misjudged things. Draco continued to work adeptly in male form, with the occasional usage of a glamor or dose of polyjuice to disguise him from the suspects who would recognize him otherwise.

At least until the third night on the Numptie case.

It was 3AM in Shoreditch,where he was stationed outside of a nondescript old building. The street was unnaturally dark and quiet, no doubt from the careful placement of discretion charms. He and Potter were investigating Mortimer Numptie—an unhinged wizard who sold cheap art to muggles, not without charming them to appear as rare and priceless works.

Potter had been the obvious choice to pose as a potential customer. He knew how to act like a muggle. Hell, he practically _was_ one already. With a generous swig of polyjuice, Potter had become rich socialite, Baz Pitch. Then he had gone off to Numptie’s shop with an exaggerated saunter that Draco thought looked more like a hurried waddle.

That had all been three hours ago.

How long did it take to buy counterfeit art? Draco was certain it wasn’t three hours. He cursed under his breath and kicked a tree, which left him clutching his foot and hissing more obscenities. He was concealed in a wooded area opposite Numptie’s shop. There was still no sign of Potter, and Draco was left with no choice but to go in after him.

Draco pointed his wand to his face to glamour his hair brown and his nose less pointed. He frowned when he didn’t feel the spell work. He attempted it again, to the same results, or lack thereof. _Dammit._ Numptie must have placed a ward on magic, which surprised Draco, as it far bypassed the man’s known skill level. It was possible that Numptie had one of his seedy family members maintaining the ward, which would be sure to further complicate things.

Draco paced restlessly and began to weigh his options. He could try to escape the perimeter of the wards and call for backup—though he had no idea how long that would take, and bringing in other aurors might pose a greater risk to Potter.

He could go in himself, and demand entry—but showing up, again, with no backup would only prompt them to take him down. It was likely that Potter’s cover was already blown, so Numptie and his men would have no qualms with silencing Draco as well.

Which left Draco with only one choice remaining. He would have to enter the building without his authority as an Auror or his power as a wizard. To get through Numptie’s defenses, he would have to pose as a muggle, which would be tricky, considering that Potter had already failed at that earlier.

Not allowing himself time to hesitate, Draco leaned back on a tree, closed his eyes, and tried to focus.

It _wasn’t_ working. He needed a trigger.

Draco opened his eyes and looked down on the grass and weeds, all draped in shadow. It took him several moments to spot the small patch of wild flowers on the edge of the clearing. He knelt down beside it, gliding his fingers through the open buds. It wouldn’t take much. He leaned down and took in a breath of pollen.

He burst into a sneezing fit, and it was _grotesque_ , because he could feel his body bending, twisting, reshaping, with each one. Each time his gender changed, he developed a bias towards the opposite gender. Finally, the sneezing fit stopped, and thankfully, it had ended with female.

She climbed up to all fours, panting quietly, long hair hanging in her face. As she got to her feet, she tore off her fitted robes, beneath which she was wearing a neat blouse and a skirt. She pulled off the blouse, revealing a white tank top, which was low cut and uncomfortably revealing. She then scuffed up her boots on nearby rocks and tousled her hair into a disheveled mane. But this woudn't do. She wasn’t _dirty_ enough. Draco picked up a liberal clump of dirt and began to rub it against her skin and clothes. Afterwards she found a sharp enough rock to tear the hem of her skirt some.

As Draco approached Numptie’s shop, she could see her reflection in the dark curtained windows. She had never been so dirty and ragged in her life. She looked like absolute street filth.

 _Now I just have to act the part_ , she told herself, turning to the door, taking a deep breath, and knocking.

 _Knocking_ probably didn’t properly characterize what she was doing. She was _pounding_ on the door, kicking it at times, rattling the knob in a sort of desperate, deranged way that she associated with drug addicts.

“I know you’re in there!” she screamed shrilly, banging with both fists. “Open the door, you fucking tosser!” She supplemented her cuffs with more kicks, utilizing the most extreme aggression she could without her wand. She nearly tired herself out in only ten minutes, when finally, someone flung the door open.

A bald, unshaven man stared down at her. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

Draco ignored him. “Where is he!?” she snarled, storming right into the building, but the unfamiliar man caught her around the waist. She struggled against him, kicking and swinging, as she screamed with all the insanity of a narked Ginevra Weasley.

Was this man the controller of the wards? No. Draco couldn’t feel any magic from him.

The thug dragged her forward. He grabbed a chunk of her thick hair, as it gave him better leverage than her flailing limbs. Draco continued her litany of obscenities as she was dragged down a corridor of the sordid shop, then into a large room where she was thrown onto a floor with dirty brown carpeting.

She slowly looked up, pulling her long hair out of her face. Aside from the bald man, there were three other people, all standing around her with expressions ranging from amusement to disgust, and Draco could tell that they were all wizards. Some, Draco recognized as Numptie's thuggish cousins.

Draco could see Potter in her periphery. His polyjuice had worn off. He was littered with cuts and bruises, and tied to a chair on the opposite side of the room. His arms tensed in his binds.

“Who the hell is this?” said a brown-haired man Draco recognized as Mortimer Numptie. But Numptie didn’t look displeased; he was grinning.

“Some daft bint,” growled the bald one. “Nearly broke down the door.”

“What’s your name, girl?” Numptie stepped forward.

“Mercury,” said Draco. _Fuck. Is that even a muggle name?_

“Mercury…” Numptie mused, allowing the name to roll along his tongue. If he found it to be unusual, he didn’t mention it.

Draco sat on her heels. “I’m looking for Byrn. He owes me money, and I’m not leaving until I see that bitch ass bloody troll piece of shit tosser...” She darted her eyes about the room until she spotted him—the holder the ward. He was standing apart from the others, his arms crossed, his form rigid, and Draco could sense the magic stirring around him. She gave a brief glance to Potter, and he gave a muffled nose of reproach, like he could tell what she was planning to do, as though it might interrupt his own plan of being quite stationary.

Numptie licked his lips. “I can’t say I know a Byrn, though if it’s money you need, I’m sure we can reach an arrang…”

Draco didn’t allow him to finish. She thrust her weight forward and ran past him, practically flinging herself towards the wall, and the man standing against it, his body still tense, and his arms still crossed.

She had never fought in this body before, and she knew she had neither the weight nor the muscle mass that her male self had. It was as though each version of her was molded specifically for her potential needs. Her male-self had muscle and fluidity for force, defense, and intimidation. _This_ body had quick reflexes and a quicker tongue, meticulous fingers, vulnerability, fastidious spellwork, and lots and lots of femininity.

She threw herself into the man with enough force for him to jerk back, his head hitting the wall behind him.

But it was enough. The wards fell, and Draco dropped down, because suddenly curses were flying from five different wands.

Potter was free courtesy of his powerful wandless magic. She could see his patronus shoot through the wall. Draco slid her wand out of her boot and rolled to her side to avoid a curse.

An hour later, the site was contained and swarming with Aurors. Draco and Potter trudged out of the hospital, both still dirty and disheveled, though significantly less bruised up. Draco had managed to shift back into male form before going to St. Mungos and having to deal with the press that often patrolled the corridors.

On the front steps of the hospital, Draco and Potter spared each other a glance. Draco eyed the blush on Potter’s face, visible even beneath the grime there.

“Well, I best be off,” Potter said, looking pointedly away. He was attempting nonchalance but tripped over his own feet and nearly flung himself down the staircase.

Draco caught his arm to keep the sod from capsizing. “I’ll come then.”

“What?” said Potter, turning to Draco in shock.

“The doctor said that you shouldn’t be alone for at least another hour.”

“Seriously, it’s fine, Malfoy.”

“No it isn’t. You can splinch yourself if you try to apparate, you imbecile. On top of that, you’re still having episodes of dizziness and vertigo.”

As if on cue, Potter began to teeter over again. Draco impatiently wrapped his arm around Potter’s waist.

“No!” said Potter, struggling and failing to get away. He was acting like a man on his way to the gallows, and it was as fascinating as it was amusing. “Trust me Malfoy, coming back to my place it not a good idea.” He futilely tried to unwrap Draco’s arm from around him.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Then we’ll go to mine.”

“What!?”

“And we haven’t missed dinner with my parents. It’ll be a riot,” said Draco in a deadpan voice.

Before Potter could say anything more, Draco apparated them both to the manor.

The moment the two landed in Draco’s bedroom, Potter began to teeter again. Draco impatiently pushed him towards the bed, where Potter flopped down like a wet towel. He floundered, and managed to sit himself upright. Then he fidgeted his thighs and looked around, looking like he might bolt.

“Just stay put,” said Draco, as he rummaged in his closet. “And put these on.” He threw some robes into Potter’s lap.

Grabbing a towel and a second set of clothing, Draco walked into the connected bathroom, and took a quick shower, as he knew his parents were waiting for him. Fifteen minutes later, he was clean, dried, and dressed. He walked back into the bedroom as he pulled his fingers through his still-damp hair. He was impressed that Potter had managed to put on the clothes Draco had provided, and he seemed to have even managed a cleaning spell.

“Ready?” Draco said, offering his arm. He suspected he was enjoying himself far too much.

Wearing a mulish look, Potter stood on his own, albeit rather precariously. Draco merely gave him a look, before turning, and leading Potter to the dining room.

Mother and father acknowledged Potter with a raise of one brow each and two curt, “Mr. Potter”s. As Potter plopped himself down and began to tear into his food as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks, his parents doggedly attempted to ignore him.

It was only as Potter was pouring liberal amounts of salt on his potatoes and pepper on his roast that Draco realized the true detriment of his dinner guest.

He sneezed.

*

Malfoy wiped her nose with a napkin, neither acknowledging her mother’s blithe interest nor her father’s sharp look of disapproval. “My apologies, mother, father. I usually ask the elves not to bring pepper to the table. You know I am sensitive.” Malfoy frowned at the way her breasts stretched out her robes, as though she was frustrated by how large they were.

Harry couldn’t help it; he stared.

“Oh but Draco, we have a guest tonight,” said Narcissa. “I asked Binky to bring out the seasonings. Surely we couldn't have Mr. Potter wanting for anything.”

Harry choked, his face going scarlet. He coughed something indecipherable even to himself, and quickly resumed his, admittedly grotesque, show of eating. He just had to finish so he could get his arse home.

“There should be some comfortable attire in the back of your closet, darling,” Narcissa continued. “Nighties and things.”

 _Nighties!?_ Harry’s ears burned.

“How thoughtful,” said Malfoy aloofly. Harry could see Lucius’s expression becoming increasingly irate.

“You know what the healer said anyway,” Narcissa went on.

Malfoy slowly chewed some asparagus in her girly little mouth. “Of course.”

“One might think you would have the proper courtesy to turn back,” Lucius snarled. The table fell silent. Harry gawked.

Malfoy hardly restrained herself from rolling her eyes. “What difference does it make father?” she said, and Harry was shocked that she would be so mutinous.

Lucius’s eyes flashed. “We have a guest.”

_Me!? Guest? No—no—I’m just Harry…_

“Harry already knows that I’m a metamorphgenus—”

_Harry? Did she just use my first name!?_

“And so you insist on advertising—”

“I _am not!_ ”

It was interesting, and yet _consistent_ , that Malfoy was reluctant to turn back into his male form. It was like Malfoy had told Harry—that each gender resented the other—to some degree, and they were in a constant feud for control. Yet both knew their duties, as a Malfoy.

“You always hated me this way,” Draco practically whined. Her fork and knife were restlessly tearing into her roast and potatoes, cutting it all up into tiny bits in the gravy, turning it into a gelatinous concoction better suited for consumption by straw than silver utensils. “You always have, father. You’re such a berk, such a bloody wanker...” She indiscreetly grumbled quite audibly.

Narcissa looked grim—or rather, she looked as though she was _attempting_ to look grim. Harry was aghast, and Lucius looked apoplectic.

“What did you say to me, boy!?” Lucius snapped.

“I’m not a boy!” Draco retorted, jumping to her feet.

Harry fumbled with his wand in his sleeve as Lucius stood as well, but slowly, _dangerously._

Several things happened at once. Draco launched herself at her father. Narcissa released a gasp. Binky dropped the soufflé and released a half-hearted sort of wail of protest. Harry didn’t know whether to cover his eyes or bare witness.

And suddenly Draco was hugging her father fiercely, face buried in his robes. She mumbled an apology. Lucius gave a long-suffering sigh and lightly petted her head.

As Draco strolled off to her quarters as though nothing unusual had occurred, Lucius glared at his wife; she smiled back demurely. Harry blinked several times, swallowed down the last bit of his roast, managed a, “Er—th-that—I’m going to—” before giving up and walking off after Draco.

When Harry poked his head back through the open door of Draco’s quarters, the blonde in question was lounged on her bed, still very much a girl, and she was wearing the—erm—nightie. Harry’s throat went dry. He mouthed a few times, trying to produce words. “I’m going to…um…leave now,” he said tersely.

Draco’s eyes snapped up. She lowered her book and approached Harry. Her legs were very long, and smooth, the nightgown hugging her curves. Her hard planes were gone, and Harry sort of missed them, but he also liked this as well, this softness.

“Refreshing isn’t it?” Draco smirked. “Everything’s always so disgustingly manly around here.” She spun around, showing off how short the gown was, how perfect her arse looked in the white silk. Merlin, she was fucking with him. Everything was always a sick game to the git.

Harry swallowed. “Right. Gonna go.”

“Bye,” said Malfoy dryly, almost petulant.

Harry found himself turning back around. “Alright?”

Malfoy rolled her eyes. “Quite.”

Harry nodded forcefully.

“What about you?” said Malfoy, her voice haughty. “You’ve been a mess all night.”

Harry struggled to maintain an impassive demeanor. “You’re just—different—when you’re a woman. With your mum and dad. With—everyone.”

“I’m more outspoken.” Draco shrugged. “More unruly and courageous. It’s a hormonal, thing I guess.”

“Oh.”

They panned into an unpleasant silence, both waiting but neither acting.

“I don’t get you,” said Malfoy. “You’re always staring. Do you like me as a man or a woman?”

Harry glanced away, a bit abashed. “That’s the thing, Malfoy. I like both versions. I find this all so…exciting.” Despite his better judgement, he met Malfoy’s eyes.

“Exciting? That would imply that there’s something to look forward to,” said Malfoy, with mock sadness.

“Well, yeah,” said Harry, approaching. “Isn’t that the way things usually go with us?” He kissed Malfoy then, kissed her for the first time since the Christmas party. It was a little softer, less frantic, but more satisfying. Malfoy kissed him back in a languid way, enjoying but not savoring. Because Harry was already hers.

“Yes,” she said, “quite.” And Harry pushed her into the wall, kissing her again, deeper this time.

Draco pulled back, and Harry was sure she could feel his erection on her hip.

“Potter, I’m on my period,” said Draco, bereft of any embarrassment

Harry blinked. “Oh—right. So I don’t suppose you want to…”

“Not really,” Draco admitted.

There was a pause, Harry contemplating, Draco raising a brow.

“Can you…change?” said Harry tentatively. “Back into a man?”

It was Draco’s turn to blink. Then she smirked. “Let’s get some pepper.” And she pulled Harry along to the kitchen.

*

Harry was not sure what was going on between him and Malfoy, but Malfoy was insistent that they _were not_ dating. It was a week following the horrible dinner at the manor, and Malfoy was with him, _beneath him,_ in female form, for the first time.

They had just gotten off work, and Harry admired the way Draco’s uniform fit her so perfectly regardless of form. Malfoy should have had the spellwork done on all her clothes, but the git would probably see it as a sort of concession. Harry admired the skirt especially. He slid his hand beneath the robes, up Malfoy’s long legs, enjoying the easy access, and the softness. It was bizarre how rapidly he had come to adore every version of the prat.

They were sprawled on the couch of Harry’s living room, neither having had the tenacity to make it up to Harry’s bedroom on the third floor. Harry worked his way through Malfoy’s robes, and continued to enjoy the nuances. He liked the way Malfoy was more prone to blushing as a female, and he liked the way her body shuddered, and how she seemed especially sensitive when Harry stroked the spot to the right of her stomach, just above her hip, making her pant quietly, thighs shuddering.

Harry paused. “Hmm…”

“Do you want me to change?” Malfoy breathed.

“No. Not necessarily.” Harry smiled. “What are you more comfortable with?”

Malfoy shrugged in a way that said, _Doesn’t matter_.

“I’ve never been with you like this before,” Harry observed, running his hands along Malfoy’s hips, which were fuller, wider. He cupped Malfoy’s breasts. Mourdred, they were _perfect_.

Malfoy’s blush deepened, not from the contact, but from her admission to follow: “I’ve never been with anyone like this before."

Harry’s breath caught, but he tried to pretend like it hadn’t. “Right, then,” he said nonchalantly. He continued to glide his fingers over Malfoy's curves. Suddenly this seemed so special, so _important_.

Malfoy grabbed his shirt, and in a huffed whisper said, “Potter, just fuck me.”

"Right," Harry managed.

So he did.

*

He didn’t know what this was, but it was very, very nice.

Harry could feel light beaming on his face from the tip of his wand. It meant it was time to get up for work.

He felt Malfoy sprawled across his chest, felt Malfoy shifting against him.

 _Male? Oh, female this morning._ Harry stroked her back, feeling oddly protective. He made to pull her closer, but her body tensed. Without warning, she tore herself from Hary's arms and ran straight into the adjoining bathroom.

Harry sat up and frowned at the partially-open bathroom door. He cringed at the sound of Malfoy vomiting.

It was only a few minutes later that Malfoy trudged back into the room, in male form now. He was getting better at transforming—often even managing it now without having to sneeze.

Malfoy sat on the bed, and Harry held his face, examining him. Malfoy rolled his eyes as Harry took in the lack of lines under Malfoy’s eyes, not like his female-form, who looked exhausted of late. “Are you okay?” said Harry, finally allowing the blonde to pull away.

“I think the flu? I figure I’ll ride it out like this.” Malfoy got up and grabbed a towel out of one of Harry’s drawers.

Harry smiled idly. He had always found it fascinating that Malfoy could isolate illnesses to one gender. “Okay,” he agreed.

For the next several weeks, Malfoy remained in his male form. On the rare occasions that Malfoy’s female form peeked out, she still looked knackered. Weeks turned to months, and Malfoy remained a male even at Harry’s house, and the manor, with little reprieve. Harry wasn’t sure whether Malfoy was just falling back into his old habits or if he was hiding something.

Harry inquired about it at the office one afternoon.

“I’m just trying to stay focused,” Malfoy grumbled, not looking up from his paperwork.

Harry was not sure what that meant and the git refused to elaborate.

*

After several months of "not dating" Malfoy, Harry figured it was time he admitted it to his friends.

Ron just didn't get it. Hermione was intrigued.

"Harry, I didn't know you were gay," said Hermione, with a thoughtful expression.

"Well actually, I'm, er, bisexual," Harry explained what had become exceedingly clear to him over the past several months.

Ron was less concerned about Harry's sexuality than he was about the focus of it. "I don't get it, mate. Is it a hate sex sort of thing?"

Hermione looked scandalized.

Harry blushed. "I suppose, depending on what type of day he's having." And he took cover for Hermione's harsh reprimand.

They quickly arranged after-work drinks. Harry had to practically drag Malfoy to the bar near the ministry where he was officially introduced as Harry's "not-boyfriend."

As the others chattered, Malfoy gazed down at his firewhisky with a speculative look on his face. Finally, he pushed it away. It was clearly below his superior pallet.

Midway through the evening, Ron returned from the bathroom, and it immediately became clear that he must have bathed himself in the cheap cologne Harry had given him for his birthday.

The effects were immediate. Draco sneezed, and became a woman.

Her cheeks were flushed, her skin glowing in a very alluring way. As Harry met her eyes, he was surprised by the emotion that overcame him from nowhere. He suddenly wanted to hold her, comfort her, to keep her safe.

Ron reacted almost violently, jumping to his feet, staggering back, and falling on his arse with a yelp.

Hermione's mouth hung ajar. She managed to close it, but then her eyes gleamed with excitement. "Malfoy, you're a metamorphgenus?" she intoned, practically dissecting the pureblood with her eyes. She looked as though she wouldn't be opposed to dissecting him _for real_ in her leisure time.

Harry's lip twitched, but he tried to look unamused. He was shocked when he felt a hand grasp his under the table, and the look Malfoy gave him was entreating.

"Harry."

But then Malfoy sneezed again, and was a man. He stiffened, and dropped Harry's hand, then glared at each person in turn, as if daring them to comment. "Weasley, where the hell did you get that cologne? You smell like goat piss."

Harry reddened.

"Granger, stop ravaging me with your eyes, you lecher. I don't have to take this, Potter. To hell with your friends!" Coughing, Malfoy got up and stalked off, but then broke into an undignified scurry as if afraid he would sneeze again.

In his wake, Ron and Hermione were left staring. Ron climbed back into his seat.

"Now I get it." Ron nodded to Harry, lifting his drink.

"Ron!" Hermione reproached.

Harry took Malfoy's firewhisky. "Cheers."

*

Draco did not technically need to sneeze to change. It was all psychological. Sneezing just _worked_ for him, as a sort of outlet. It was his subconscious seizing control of his abilities.

It had almost happened at a ministry function, when he was offered a plate of peppery hors-d'oeuvres by a simpering waiter. It could have been _disastrous_ , but somehow Draco managed not to sneeze. Instead he fled, and spent the rest of the night locked in the bathroom, internally lecturing himself, and too phobic to rejoin the celebration. Then there were the waves of self-resentment. Why was he such shit at controlling his own magic?

Finally, the day came that Draco could not hold back his sneeze. Thankfully, it was only Potter who was present. The two were in the middle of a stakeout, monitoring a house across the street from the abandoned one they had set up in. At first, Draco internally ran through feeble explanations. In the meantime, Potter gawked.

Draco's attire had changed more considerably than usual. His gently muscled physique have given way to a softness and…and a heaviness. It was dark in the house, but Potter wasn’t _blind,_ especially considering that his glasses were currently on. And so they simply stared at each other, Draco biting her lip, and Potter's eyes bulging from his skull.

Draco broke the silence. “Surprise,” she intoned in a long, sardonic lilt.

It took Potter a while to manage to speak. He looked very much like a suffocating aquatic creature. “ _This_ is what you’ve been hiding!?” he finally squeaked out.

“So?” Draco said hotly.

Potter sputtered. “You look like you’re about to pop!”

It was Draco’s turn to flush—though her cheeks were already quite pink as they were. “I’m only eight months, you arse!” she said, swinging wildly at Potter with her erratically flailing fists.

Potter caught her arms. “D-Draco.”

Draco suspended her assault. “I…just give me a moment.” She turned away, closed her eyes, and tried to focus. “There,” he sighed, smoothing his hands along his again-lithe body.

Potter went pallid. “Wh-what happened t-to…” He began to pat Draco down in a blank, deranged way.

“It’s fine, Potter. Magic, remember?”

Potter swallowed.

“What happens to _me_ doesn’t effect _her_. It’s safer this way.”

“You’re p-preg—”

“Well, _she_ is.”

Potter gave him an incredulous look.

Draco lightly shook his head. “I mean—yes. I am. I get a bit dissociative sometimes. Sorry.” He massaged his temple and examined Potter’s still-paling face. “See this is why I didn’t want to tell you,” he snapped, arbitrarily irate.

Potter looked appalled. “How could you not!?”

Draco deflated somewhat.

“Merlin, we're going to have a baby.” Forgetting his indignation, Potter pulled him into a tight embrace.

“I guess, yeah,” said Draco.

“What are we going to do?”

“I mostly try not to think about it.”

Potter pulled back to give him an appraising look.

“She’s been itching to get out,” Draco heard himself admit. “To show you.”

Potter frowned. “How does it work, exactly?”

“Hell if I know.”

“I want to see it,” said Potter, with a determined expression. “Properly.”

Draco glanced away, looking uniquely embarrassed. “After. Let’s just get through this mission.”

Potter's face went blank, as if he had finally registered the word "mission" in the newfound context of the pregnancy. His expression hardened as Draco tried not to wince.

"Eight months," Potter said quietly, a grimace crossing his lips. He drew, and exhaled, slowly, as though to temper himself. “After this shift, we’re due for a long conversation.”

“Fine,” said Draco, his voice weaker than curt.

In tandem, they turned back to the residence they were surveilling, though both of their heads couldn’t have been farther from the mission.

*

The dark front windows of the house were illuminated by a verdant glow as sharp and emerald as Potter's eyes. Draco felt his heart leap into his throat, and he was assaulted with a wave of dizziness he often associated with cooling bodies, gnarled wounds, and the acrid smell of blood in the air. He didn't know that his legs have given out until he felt the pain of his knees connecting with the floor.

Potter’s jaw hardened. “Stay here,” he said, apparating off, without hesitation. He had survived _Avada Kedavra_ twice before. By then he undoubtedly got off on the immunity. Or he had a death-wish. Either one, really.

“Arse,” Draco hissed, climbing to his feet and apparating after Harry. When Draco surfaced in a darkened living room with curses flying in every direction, he, for the upteenth time, questioned his decision to join the aurors. Taking cover behind an overturned table, Draco aimed his wand. He took a man and a woman down with stunning spells in quick succession, before ducking back down as the opposite side of the table exploded just inches from his shoulder.

He felt magic surge and crackle through the air. Draco rolled away just before the table caught a curse and was disintegrated.

Now he had no cover, and he still couldn’t tell which figure was Potter. He heard someone grunt several feet from him, and collapse in a heap. It had sounded like Potter, but Draco couldn’t be sure. But now Draco was distracted, and a curse caught him as well.

*

Draco _hadn’t_ actually forgotten that he was pregnant. Sometimes—for short periods of time, admittedly—he would find some privacy, and turn female.

She would examine herself, feel the movements, and feel as horrified as she felt relieved, because the baby was with her, safe, inside her, and nothing could touch her as long as she was male.

Or so he had thought.

At present, Draco was sprawled on his back in male form, his body twitching grotesquely at the erratic pains that waxed and waned and ricocheted inside him, disappearing briefly, to surface worse somewhere else, back and forth, burning him from the inside out. He could feel liquid fire flowing through his arteries and bubbling back up under his flesh.

The curse was eating away at him, somehow he could _sense_ it. Somehow he could _feel_ the inkiness flowing through his veins and turning black against his skin.

“Don’t change,” said Potter. He was knelt down beside him, covered in cuts and bruises, his lip bleeding down his chin. “No matter what, don’t transform. We have to keep you safe, you and—the baby.”

“’s fine,” said Draco, with a pained smile. “I don…don’t have to...” Was he convincing himself or reassuring Harry? The compulsion was there. To shift his body and hope that the curse didn’t follow him into the female form. There would be relief, and it would be _everything_. “I won’t,” he repeated, his eyes watering, of all things. Potter smiled back, pointing his wand with tremulous fingers.

A black veil flowed down over reality, as sight, sound, and feeling slipped off in a most pleasant way. He thought of Harry. Thought of the baby. Then he didn't think of anything.

*

He was in the hospital for several days, weak, tense, and trembling. Harry wanted the healers to check on the baby, but Draco’s circumstances were unprecedented. The healers didn’t want to risk it. Draco was still so weak, and they didn’t want to hazard the potential stress of a transformation.

So he and Harry talked, nervous as both felt. It wasn’t as though Draco could hide from him anymore. So they just talked about things.

"Has it really been eight months?" Harry asked softly. He was seated at the bedside, holding one of Draco’s hands, stroking his knuckles.

Draco nodded, though it hardly felt true. "A bit longer. You must have knocked me up the first time you shagged me as a female."

"Hmm..." Harry gazed at Draco's abdomen, though there was no tangible sign of the pregnancy. “Do your parents know?” 

“They learned in a similar fashion to you,” he said, a bit facetiously.

“And they don’t mind?”

“Only mildly. It handles the issue of an heir, doesn’t it? They know I like blokes. They probably figure this is their only hope of seeing the Malfoy line continue.”

Harry nodded absently. “Do they know it’s mine?”

“They suspect. Why does it matter?”

“I guess it doesn’t.” He hesitated. “Did you plan it?”

“No,” said Draco firmly. He gave a small grimace, and tensed somewhat. “Of course not. It just…happened. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t have to overanalyze it. I didn’t even have to fully experience it. I sort of just allowed it. I was a bit numb but I—I didn’t mind—” Draco grimaced again.

“Are you alright?” said Harry, standing. He put his hand on Draco’s waist and frowned at him in concern.

Draco blinked. “I....” He transformed to female, belly pushing at Harry’s hand, causing the brunette to jolt. “Potter, I’m in labor,” said Draco flatly.

Harry staggered back, then ran off to get the healer.

*

Having babies was interesting. It was also completely batshit.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, this hurts, I want to turn.”

“You can’t turn!” said Harry in alarm.

“I know I can’t, I tried,” Draco sobbed. “This is stupid, this sucks, why did I let this happen!?” She tried to throttle Harry with her girly fists and claws.

It was a boy.

Draco took to motherhood rather well, Harry finding it surreal. He often still had to remind himself that Draco’s female form was just as authentic as his male one.

The next day, Harry returned from Diagon with a few things for the baby. Draco was sitting up on the bed, now in his male form. He was much paler than he had been in his female form, and quite thin. There were bruises under his eyes, and his body stiffened every so often when he moved, but he held the baby securely against him.

The difference in health was so profound, Harry found himself momentarily stunned. But he recovered before Malfoy could notice and sucked in a long breath. “Giving her a break?”

Malfoy looked up and nodded. “She’s recovering.”

“So are you.”

Malfoy shrugged.

Harry approached the bed and surveyed the baby fondly. “What shall we name him?”

“It’s already taken care of,” said Draco absently.

Harry raised his brows. “Oh?” He was a bit perturbed that he would be excluded from the naming process, but he couldn’t fight with Draco. Not when he was this unwell.

“James.”

“…Oh.” It was the sum of Harry’s thoughts on the matter. He blinked several times.

James had green eyes and a shock of red hair. Harry had found it amusing at first, but Draco had hardly seemed to mind. Draco was idly, passionlessly, unquestionably in love with the infant. And so was Harry.

James’s features were all Draco. The brows, the lips, the curve of the nose.

It was still bizarre to realized that he had only learned about James a few days ago. Harry had been unceremoniously thrust into fatherhood, and it was still a bit dizzying.

Harry sat on the bed beside the blonde. He lightly touched Draco’s shoulder, prompting him to turn his way. They kissed lightly, languidly; it was always so easy.

“You love him,” Harry quietly accused. He knew he had Draco trapped in a corner. Though was it trapping, when it was so obvious? Then again, he doubted the blonde had ever admitted to loving anyone.

“Yes,” said Draco, looking back down.

“You love _me_ ,” said Harry, and now he could feel his heart pounding, trying to break through his ribs.

And Draco’s response was just as neutral as his last. “Yes,” he agreed.


End file.
